What's Wrong with Being a Rat
by Detouredbe
Summary: Three-year old Fidget asks Professor Ratigan a very precariously personal question. One-shot.


**In this one-shot, a very young Fidget asks Professor Ratigan a very sensitive question. Reading AmberLS123's "Echoes in the Night" reminded me that you can turn dreams you had involving the characters into fanfic, but although I dreamt that I had this conversation with Ratigan, I thought it sounded better coming from Fidget. This one is dedicated to AmberLS123, who gave me such a nice review on "Bright and Alert as Always"!**

Ratigan sat at his desk, following his daily routine. He would first check over statistics, such as how much his stolen wealth had grown over the past week, month, year, then he would check over his plans for current or future heists or scams or whatever sort of crime he had in mind of committing, and see that everything was going according to scheme, or that everything required for the next crime/s was being taken care of accordingly, then if he got a new idea, he would quickly begin jotting down notes about it, then mapping it out, and deciding who would work on what, and whether or not he should get openly involved and let it be known to the public that he was the mastermind behind it. Crime and dark publicity were an extremely important business and passion of his, and thus must be taken extreme care of.

When all was done, if he had time to spare, he would often take out a clean sheet of paper, and produce for himself several complicated math problems to solve, and proceed to work on them; it was an excellent way to keep his brain in top shape, or to recover from any disappointments he may have uncovered in his earlier oversights.

It was as he was doing this, however, that his senses picked up that he was no longer alone. In fact, there was someone standing right beside him. Looking up from his desk and turning to the left, he saw a little boy staring up at him with big yellow eyes, sucking a thumb. Ratigan growled mentally; it was his right hand man's three-year old brat, Fidget. "_And what a ridiculous name!_" Ratigan thought to himself every time he thought of the name. He did not care much for having the baby bat around, in fact, he had rather hoped when he had hired his father three years before, that the old bat would have handed him over to a friend or something, but he had pleaded with him to let him bring the child along. Ratigan didn't know why he had said yes, perhaps it was just that he admired the subtle beauty hidden in the natural cuteness brought on by an infantile state. Being a bat of one of the local breeds, the baby was so small he could have held him quite comfortably in one hand, and though he was seldom completely still, he was usually asleep, and managed to look quite sweet with his eyes closed, oblivious to the world around him.

Or, perhaps he had thought having the child grow up here would make an easy starting point in breeding a future helper, but Ratigan had known all along if he let the infant stay, the stakes were high that he would eventually be subject to pestering from him as he got older. It was inevitable, children were such curious little troubles, and if they weren't frightened by a man more than twice the height of their fathers, they were irresistibly fascinated by them. Some even saw them more as living toys than elders and superiors who were to be greatly respected, and as much as it made Ratigan alternatively shudder and bristle over it, it seemed as if this was indeed how Fidget had turned out.

Coming from an adult, Ratigan would have seen the attention as either problematic or flattering, depending on the nature of the person; a potential threat had to be recognized and disposed of, but a potential helper of any sort just as urgently had to be recognized and snapped up. When it was a little child, however, whatever manner of attention was simply annoying.

"My, what a _pleasant_ surprise!" Ratigan exclaimed cautiously, trying his best to keep in touch with his manners. "To what miscalculation do I owe this pleasure?"

The little bat continued sucking his thumb, but cocked an eyebrow. He had not understood a single word Ratigan had said.

"_Why can children not be born eloquent?_" Ratigan rued in his mind, "_It would make it much less tedious to try and talk to them!_" "How did you get in here?" he asked in down-to-earth English, hoping he would not have to try and dumb his talk down even further for the little one.

"Door wasn't locked," Fidget relinquished his oral hold on his thumb and pointed in the door's direction.

Ratigan had suspected something must have been faulty about the door if Fidget had gotten in unannounced, though he could have sworn he locked it - perhaps he would have to get the lock checked, or perhaps a bolt was in due. Well, obviously the child had come in here for something of juvenile fancy, best to get it over with as soon as possible. "Well then, child, eh, what has brought you in here?"

"Mmmm, I've got a question," the boy mumbled through his thumb, which had returned to its earlier post.

Of course. A question. That was what brought him in there. A question. As if Ratigan could not have multiplied his estate at a hundred to one over that. However, he wanted the point to be gotten to, precisely, _what_ was this question that so mattered to the child that he naively took this dangerous risk of interrupting the Professor's alone time in order to inquire it of him?

"Oh, indeed?" Ratigan purred, "and just what is of such interest to you, dear boy?"

Fidget let those complicated words slip over his head, and assumed the enormous gentleman was asking him to ask. Drawing his thumb out again, he came forth, "What's wrong with being a rat?"

Ratigan blinked. Fidget saw Ratigan's normally greyish complexion become a blend of grey and rosey-red, but didn't realize what that meant. "Papa says you hate when people call you a rat; that you're only a big mouse. What's wrong with being a rat?"

Staring past Fidget at a shelf full of books on the wall, Ratigan said, "it is simple, I am _not_ a rat, I_ am_ 'only a big mouse'!"

"But, if you _were_ a rat, would you still get mad if they called you one?"

Ratigan stayed silent, growing gradually redder, so Fidget gave his opinion, "It doesn't sound so bad, sir. S'there even something different about rats? They all look like really big mice!" He smiled cheerfully as he demonstrated "big" with his hands.

"_Different? Oh, there's something different alright! _Mice_ are perfect angels on earth, according to law! _Rats_, on the other hand, are filthy, disgusting breeders of the plague! Those of us who have gotten anywhere with mice have to __fight__ for it, __every single moment of our supposedly sorry lives__! I, for one, am sick of it!_"

Although Ratigan did not answer the curious little bat, Fidget noticed that along with his face now going purplish, he was starting to clench his fists. Now it suddenly dawned on him that the Professor was getting angry. But why? He hadn't done anything wrong, he was just asking a question.

Just then, they both heard someone calling for Fidget, and a moment later, a knock came at the door. "Grr, come in!" Ratigan snapped. "It isn't locked, so I'm told!"

As the door opened, a bat in his mid-thirties entered, explaining, "Forgive me, Professor, but I cannot find my son anywhere! I hoped by some chance -"

"Yes, he is here," Ratigan growled, "and you've come in the nick of time, for his sake. Please take him away without a moment's hesitation." There was unmistakable warning in his voice, whatever Fidget had done or said, the Professor was on his last strings. As Ratigan shoved the child out from behind his desk, the father came over and retrieved his son, holding him protectively in his wings. Fidget felt much safer there, and as such he braved turning to Ratigan and saying sadly, "I didn't wanna make you mad, sir, just wanted to know," Ratigan was unresponsive, as still as a statue, so his employee replied, "This won't happen again, I promise, Professor," before carrying his offspring outside again and leaving the rat/big mouse with his thoughts.

When they had gotten a considerable distance from the Professor's office, and when he had gotten the facts from him, Fidget's father explained to him as best as he could why "being a rat" was considered a bad thing, and why he must make sure not only never to call him one, but also never to bring up the subject around him. As silly as Fidget thought it was, deep down, he promised he never would again.

**The end.**

**AN: It seems to me that childhood naivete is even worse than being a rat in a mouse-dominated culture, but public opinions will be public opinions. In my dream, however, Ratigan did not get angry so much as sad and gravely quiet, before walking away, surprisingly enough. Maybe he likes me better than Fidget?…;)**


End file.
